


Of Stories and Tragedies

by Watashi_wa_Okami



Series: Oneshots no one asked for [14]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Family, Joui War, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mom Otose, Sad Gintoki, Sontoki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 19:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30010008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watashi_wa_Okami/pseuds/Watashi_wa_Okami
Summary: Somethings are better left unsaid, some stories better left untold. To have that choice ripped out from under your feet?There was nothing for them to do but watch their world crumble.
Relationships: Hasegawa Taizou & Sakata Gintoki, Kagura & Sakata Gintoki & Shimura Shinpachi, Otose | Terada Ayano & Sakata Gintoki
Series: Oneshots no one asked for [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1516460
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Of Stories and Tragedies

There was something about Gintoki that made you forget what he had done. Everyone knows he fought in the war, the infamous moniker _Shiroyasha_ sticks to him like a shadow, one soaked in blood and guilt and memories better left forgotten. There was something about the way he carried himself that alluded to stories better left unsaid, stories that would tear out any youthful innocence and rip it to shreds.

There was something about Gintoki that left one with a thousand questions but without the will to ask.

So when a new book graced Oedo’s shelves, one with an author so confident in their portrayal of a war long past, the residents of Kabuki-cho were hesitant to pick up a copy. Everyone knows someone who fought in the war. Someone they had lost, someone that had come back a shell of themselves. A son, a brother. A husband.

A friend.

Most citizens are aware of Gintoki’s involvement. The ones that had been there when Otose had first picked up the mutt had warned her about it: _You know he fought in that war, you see his face? You see the signs? He’s a time bomb, that one._

_He’s dangerous. He’ll snap one day, just wait._

Of course, they’d learned otherwise. But they’d never forget. They’d never forget the first day he’d thrown violent drunks from Otose’s and how they’d scrambled away, eyes puffy and missing both their shoes and dignity, unsure of just when they’d get either back, if ever. They’d never forget how he’d defended citizens against the big-headed amanto. They'd never forget the strength of a war-hardened samurai.

But he’d never snapped. Not at Otose and not at the good citizens of Kabuki-cho (though there weren’t many of those.) Even when they cornered the man, he never lashed out.

And they’d cornered him many times over. When he was out drinking, they’d plop down beside him, order him a drink, and ask a shameless question. He’d never get mad at them. In fact, he’d hardly acknowledge their presence. Just down the drink and give them a side-eyed glance before leaving them with his tab and slipping away.

Sometimes they’d feel guilty enough to pay it.

Some of them connected him to the Shiroyasha. But as the years passed, they’d almost forgotten such a thing. He’d proven to be a shameless, empty-headed good-for-nothing.

But then that book came out. So tempting, and it had been reviewed so frivolously that they couldn’t help but peak inside and purchase a copy of their own.

It wasn’t horribly thick. With a hard cover and red binding, it drew eyes and hands. And the people of Oedo read.

War veterans, however, didn’t spare it a glance.

Their family’s did. They tore through the pages with a ferocity to understand something that had never before been explained to them.

Some people called it a work of art. Others called it a sham.

War veterans, the ones that spared it a glance, would scoff at the facts and the names. They'd squint at the gore, described so fruitfully it burned their eyes.

Most of them shied away from it, careful to avoid the topic.

If it was brought up to them, if their friends asked well-researched questions, they’d stand frozen. Their mouths would hang open but the words had died in their throat years before.

_The battle of Akita, was it truly so horrible? Did that many people really die?_

_Were your resources that scarce?_

_Did that many men starve?_

_Did that many men die in vain?_

_Did that plague kill that many people?_

The questions threw the veterans into a loop of nauseating memories, leaving them with nightmares that they'd fought to lose years ago.

No one asked Gintoki.

At first, he didn’t even notice a book had come out. The only shelf he cared to look at was the one that holds his beloved JUMP. The only questions people ask surround his ever-incurring debt.

But then the book got in the hands of his friends.

Hasegawa, in his meager possessions, couldn’t hide it from Gintoki. At first, the permed man thought it was porn. Then he wrestled that grimy old man, yanking at his stubble and leaving him whining. He was quick to nab it from the moist cardboard box Hasegawa calls home.

_The Joui War: A Brief History of the Last Samurai._

An eloquent title, one might think. Only, Gintoki had never cared for such things.

He hardly spares the title a glance before dropping it in Hasegawa’s dirt-covered hands.

“You waste your money on that?” He lazily drawls and sweeps a suddenly sharp gaze onto the older man. It pierces Hasegawa, bright, daring the man to say something, anything.

A dare Hasegawa did not have the heart nor stomach to take up.

“W-well, I didn’t buy it, I-”

“You stole it?” Gintoki tilts his head, gaze flicking once more to the worn cover. “To think you’ve stooped that low.”

“No – wait, that’s not it! And as if you’re any better than me!” He screeches back and wraps his thin arms around the worn book, pressing it to his chest as if it were a valuable item (with how few things the man has, it might as well be.) “I found it – people, you know, they leave it around and…”

“What, on a park bench? How convenient for you.” His scrutinizing gaze leaves Hasegawa in a shriveled ball of pitiful confusion, words tumbling out but his grave was already buried.

Gintoki didn’t go out for a drink that night. Nor the next, although he would be keen to say he was not avoiding Hasegawa. Not that the man would know; most of their meetups just kind of happen.

But after that, Gintoki starts seeing the book more. Or, he notices it. Suddenly, he's aware that it’s in everyone’s hands, everyone’s conversations - and it has been. He's ignored it up to this point, pretending that the familiar words in conversations have been happening by pure chance.

Clearly, that was not the case and old tales spill from the citizens of Oedo. The writings had opened up a world of possibilities. As if those stories were for them to take.

As if they were for them to tell and speak of. As if they truly knew what words were spilling from their lips.

_Did you know, in Ito-_

_Oh! I just read about that, with the battle that-_

_Have you read the chapter about-_

_Takasugi._

Gintoki stops when he hears that. They’re two girls, standing out in the street. They’re dressed for the casual summer, clothing bright in yellows and blues. And from their sweet, painted lips, they start spilling _secrets._

Secrets that Gintoki himself had partaken in. Memories of post-battles when the _Joui Four -_ them, their group, their _family -_ had huddled around a fire. Names spill from their lips as if they had met the people, had spoken to the people.

As if they hadn’t watched them die, one by one.

_The Shiroyasha-_

Gintoki pries his feet of the pavement. He trudges on through sheer will but the air's turned to molasses and his feet drag.

And as his thoughts spiral, they suffocate each other. His ears fill with cotton, turning the world into a distant memory.

But as he walks along the street and his feet take him on a familiar path, he runs into people he sees every day. Typically, they'd interact, them shouting out for him to stop by and him offering little more than a lazy drawl and a wave of his hand.

He doesn't mean to be obvious, it's not a part of his character, but they notice how his mind's adrift. How he hardly twitches at their calls, how he walks right past them without any sort of friendly acknowledgement. He misses how their expressions twist at his lack of response.

He doesn’t _want_ to hear what they have to say.

When he gets home, he knows he’s early. And as the door slides open, he can hear the quiet conversation inside.

“ _-what does this mean?_ ” Kagura asks, so low and unsure but excitement vibrates underneath. The sound of a sweeping broom halts and Gintoki catches the silent _sigh_ the boy gives, as if Kagura had done this enough that perhaps he should give up on cleaning.

Gintoki knows he shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But he stands in the dark, bent in half, finger looped in his boot.

He listens.

Shinpachi trudges over, the wood creaking with each step, careful not to drag as he plops beside Kagura. The couch bends beneath him. A page rustles.

“ _Plague? That’s – like, if there’s a sickness. And it spreads to a lot of people really easily._ ”

A beat. Gintoki can't hear anything and his chest freezes, anticipation gnawing at his insides.

“ _So, they die?_ ”

“ _Yeah. A lot of people die._ ”

“ _It says their hair turns white – like Gin-chan’s._ ”

“ _I think so. My dad told me about it, once._ ”

“ _This says the Shiroyasha fixed it – killed the amanto. Did Gin-chan really-_ ”

Gintoki doesn’t stay any longer; he’d heard enough. He’s careful, pushing the door open and stepping back out. It clicks behind him, soft and more careful than he’d care to admit. The sky’s still bright, too early to go out drinking. If he did, they’d probably stare at him before asking, in a low voice, if that was what he really wanted.

It would make his throat tighten and he’d end up leaving, stuck drifting between memories and reality, a too thin line that brings him closer to an edge he’d rather not acknowledge. One bathed in alcohol and drowning in guilt.

But walking the streets, surrounded by the same excited whispering and full of the same nauseating stories? He wasn’t _that_ self-destructive (almost, though. Perhaps if he didn’t have those two kids that would worry over him not being home, he might. But that was a heavy _might._ )

So, he thumps down the steps, wood creaking underneath each _thud,_ memories flooding each _creak_. The plague, the campfire, the _fires,_ bodies piled and flesh burning.

The sun's to bright for how dark the smoke of his mind has grown. He keeps his eyes low, hooded by his bangs and trained on the broken wood below.

Most of the men couldn’t stand it, the human fires. But _someone_ had to make sure the forest didn’t burn. _Someone_ had to keep watch for amanto attracted by the flesh-blackened smoke.

When he reaches the bottom, he stands there for a moment, fingers curling around the busted railing. The wood pricks at his palm, grounding him in a rough texture far removed from woven steel. He runs a tongue along his bottom teeth, nose flaring as his face presses tight.

With a sigh, he relaxes and the emotions flood out of him. All those pesky emotions until he’s standing there, a husk of a human. Empty and numb, mind blank outside of a static background. Proof that he is alive. Barely, but alive.

Another breath and he finally looks up. The sun doesn't burn anymore but it's grown distant and even when the rays hit him, they don't warm him in the slightest.

He thinks he can make it down the street. Perhaps he will go drinking, maybe he can put up with the looks and the questions. They don't _always_ ask. But as he turns, legs still heavy and knees stiff, Snack Otose creaks open.

It isn’t the sort of slam Catherine would do mid-whine, headed to grab cigarettes or something meaningless. Nor is it the precise movement of Tama, quick and careful but strong. Weaponized broom in hand to gather long-sought rent.

No, but it is a familiar sound. One of the door getting stuck on a worn track before jostling out of it in a practiced movement. One that’s slow but no less firm. One that makes Gintoki freeze, one foot out and the other prepared to drag behind, boots already having left a track.

The scent of cigarette smoke hits his nose, accompanied by a heavy exhale from puckered lips.

Otose stares at him. He just turns his head, and, in her presence – _like always_ – he can fell the lines of his face. A stretched pressure underneath his eyes and hollowness in his cheeks, his bones.

He knows he doesn’t look like a wreck; it’s day one, but they both know what’s coming. With the storm of this book and these stories, Otose is more than familiar with how Gintoki falls apart at the seams. How he holds on for so long until he’d waxy, mind muffled. First goes his responses, then his appetite. Then comes the heavy drinking. Then the reluctance to fight even when the other is spitting in his face.

Lastly, a reluctance to defend himself, a manifestation of his self-hatred.

Otose doesn’t say anything. Just turns around and heads into her bar, the door open enough.

Gintoki flicks his gaze to the street. He watches the conversations along it’s dusty borders. They can’t _all_ be talking about that book, he knows that, but he reads it in their lips anyway.

_Katsurahama – Ito – battle – Takasugi – Nobleman – Shiroyasha –_

He steps inside and closes the door behind him in a practiced movement. It clicks shut after a moment, worn wood still perfectly slotted.

Otose had once mentioned that her husband wasn’t too bad at carpentry. It showed.

She’s not behind the counter. It’s too early, and while she knows alcohol is one way to get his emotions flowing, she’s never been the one to indulge in his self-destructive ways.

She’s set herself in a booth, a bottle in the middle – there goes the not indulging him. But Gintoki’s not fooled. It’s the cheap stuff. Between the two of them, they’ll be lucky to get a buzz. She isn’t staring at him, busy filling both their cups, fingers deft and swift on any normal occasion. But she takes her time, careful to not finish before Gintoki’s joined her.

The slow pour's almost lulling and the yellow lightbulb above isn’t blinding, candle-like in its warmth. And below it, Otose’s wrinkles somehow don’t stand out. Be it because of the makeup powdering her edges or the youthfulness she exudes when she actually drinks, Gintoki can’t be sure. Her gray hairs seem a glossy brown and while he's sure she isn't smiling, he can still see the tug of her lip.

He does join her. He’s relatively quick but keeps a steady pace, feet dragging all the while.

He plops down in a heavy thud, tight fabric releasing a _puff_ of air beneath him. Once he sits, Otose pushes his cup his way. It scraps the surface of the table. But Gintoki doesn't immediately grab it. He stares for a moment, fingers silently tapping the worn wood.

But he does take the small cup and they raise together, eyes finally meeting. There’s a twinkle in her dark eyes, one that promises the conversation to come. A trick up her sleeve.

Gintoki doesn’t comment on it. He knew what he was walking into, he wouldn’t have agreed if he hadn't. They’ve known each other long enough but there are only so many tricks to play and he doubts she has a new one up her sleeve. But he may as well let her, that or deal with a heavier scold later on.

They drink. It’s bitter on his tongue and burns down his throat. Cheap, cheap enough that he couldn’t begin to feel bad about consuming it – in fact, he’s doing her a solid, getting it out of her stores. But they refill. Their noses have crinkled at the taste and their eyes burn but they drink another cup.

Perhaps she doesn’t have some trick, some motive. Perhaps she had planned to just sit and drink and wait – not that that approach had ever worked before, but perhaps she thinks this time will be different. It might be. Back then, he didn’t have those kids. Back then, he didn’t have those people to constantly push him to be a better man, begging him to talk and relinquish his tight hold on all that guilt and misery.

If that’s where she’s getting at, a few more drinks down the line and it might – _might_ – work.

Only, once they’ve downed the third cup, a heavy _thud_ pulls Gintoki’s muddled attention. Perhaps the alcohol was stronger than he’d thought, but it takes his brain a moment to catch up with his eyes.

Familiar weathered red fills his vision, silver letters pressed into its front and side.

_The Joui War: A Brief History of the Last Samurai._

The alcohol has muddled his senses so he doesn’t jolt. He just stares at it for a moment. But his body grows numb, a distant buzzing filling his hands and thrumming up his arms. So far from the table and Otose.

“Gintoki,” she asks, but he can hardly hear it through the cotton in his ears. “ _Gintoki._ ” This time, sterner. He blinks and looks to her but the cotton’s filled his mouth and his tongue’s heavy, pressed against the bottom of his mouth. But she has his attention, she knows that. “You know everyone’s read this.”

_Yes._

“No.” The words flops out but even he isn’t convinced. She just quirks a brow, wrinkled lip twitching before she takes a drag of her cigarette, leaving Gintoki with the scent in his nose.

Cigarettes have a distinct smell. It fills his senses, his mouth, and suddenly he wants a hit. He’d never been a smoker, loves reminding both her and Hijikata about how the cancer sticks put them a foot in the grave. But now? It’s so far from the ash of the battlefield. So _here_ and _now._

It’s as if Otose guesses what he’s thinking and she passes it to him. He eyes her stained fingertips before taking it from her.

If his hand’s trembling, she doesn’t mention it.

“Let me read you some.”

_No._

“Okay.” He takes a drag. It seeps into his nerves with that familiar stale tang. Those smoky tendrils break the cotton up, releasing enough of his mind and thoughts. Enough that he registers the turning of pages.

“ _The Shiroyasha-_ ”

“No,” he bites, jolting into himself and he flicks his eyes to Otose. Had he lost himself, he might have dropped the cigarette – it’s gotten low, flame drawing closer to his fingers. Absentmindedly, he presses the filter against the pad of his thumb, feeling how it bounces back as he releases.

She doesn’t tell him to listen nor does she nag him for the interruption. She just stares at him and waits. Waits until he’s settled and is fully back in reality.

She refills their cups before trailing a wrinkled hand on the white page. He can hear it swipe across the smooth surface, nail scrapping before pausing at those same words.

“ _The Shiroyasha has always been known as a demon among men,_ ” she says but pauses, waits for an interruption. Instead, Gintoki bites his lip and pulls his cup closer to him, mind drifting with the foggy liquid. His tongue darts out and wets his bottom lip, perhaps in preparation to respond.

He doesn’t.

“ _A one-man army, or so they say. But a man nonetheless. Of all the sources I have come across, one fact remains clear: no man deserved that respect more than the Shiroyasha. A legend of the battlefield that became a true inspiration for all. And none of the men at his back, even the brothers of the fallen, hate him to this day._ ”

Finally, Otose stops. She waits for the cogs of Gintoki’s mind to stop turning. For a while, they don’t. She can see them spin behind his eyes. He blinks, a gentle crease between his brows as those words hit him again and again, expecting a change yet offering none.

Slowly, he raises his gaze. Silently, she spins the book and pushes it his way. He makes the room, passing her back the cigarette and scooting the alcohol to the side, movements stilted and body numb. And, for once, he does the one thing he never thought he’d do:

He reads something that isn’t JUMP.

- _no man deserved that respect more than the Shiroyasha. A legend of the battlefield that became a true inspiration for all. And none of the men at his back, even the brothers of the fallen, hate him to this day._

_Many of them recall battles in which the Shiroyasha screamed for the amanto’s attention, careful to draw them away from the injured, and his wise tactics kept the amanto away from nearby civilian settlements. No other general – perhaps even amongst the Joui Four – had been so considerate of the lives of their people. And at the risk of their own life._

_The surviving warriors asked me not to include the Shiroyasha’s name. I would never step upon their wishes; the Shiroyasha’s secret will stay safe. After all he had done for his people, he should live in peace._

Gintoki licks his lips, stomach churning as his mind glitches between rereading and slamming the book shut. He settles for staring at the white page, waiting for the words to change, scared of reading more. Terrified that they'll be taken back with a sadistic _just kidding!_

But they don’t live in a world of magic. Books don’t just change. So, he stares until his eyes burn from the cold and emotions too mixed to identify.

Silently, Otose drags the book from his view and his lungs stutter. He breathes - or, he tries to, but it catches in his throat (only once, but it's enough for a wheeze to get past his lips. Only one.)

But eventually his lungs start working again and oxygen starts flowing again. And while it burns in its return, it's better than the distant light-headedness that had taken over.

He flicks out a tongue, licks dry lips, and opens his mouth.

The words won’t come out. The old hag had probably expected such.

“If you’re worried of what it will expose, there isn’t much.” His mouth’s too dry to respond but he does flick his eyes to look at her. She’s distorted by his bangs but he can see a crinkle around her lips and eyes. Her thin hand takes back the cups and she stamps out the cigarette, leaving them with familiar ash and its hollow scent. “It’s mostly about the big picture. You only come up a few other times.”

He’s thankful she doesn’t elaborate _when._

It makes sense, he supposes. People may have called him legendary and a samurai above the rest but that'd only take him so far in the history books.

(Honestly, he'd never entertained the idea that he'd be written about. Not to forget what the amanto must think.)

He doesn’t say thank you, isn’t sure he could croak the words out, but he can feel the tension seep from his muscles. That underlying vibration comes back in a lively _hum,_ reminding him of his body, his limbs, his toes - and he curls them, pressing against his boots and grounding himself in reality.

He runs a hand through his wild perm, a smirk playing at the corner of his lip.

He’s grateful. Not that he believes the words of the book, not fully, but he’s still grateful. After all, he’d expected a demonization; how could it hold anything else?

And yet it had. He’d read the words himself. He’d seen the book everywhere and it didn’t – it wasn’t what he expected.

(Not that it was much better. The words still left him squeamish, uncomfortable in supposed facts he would never accept.)

He’d wouldn't read it but perhaps he could face those kids.

So, once his nerves have settled and his mind’s in working order, he slips from the booth. Otose doesn’t follow right away. She sits there and watches as he adjusts his yukata and kicks a toe into the ground, making sure his boots are nice and secure.

Without another look, he leaves. But as he slides the door open – and it gets stuck, like it always does, a quick jostle getting it out of place – he offers her a backhanded wave. One that he knows she sees. And if she also catches the ghost of a smile on his lips, she doesn’t mention it.


End file.
